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Becca handed me a coffee and sat across from me.
“Becca, why didn’t you tell me? If you needed a job, I—” I began, but she stopped me.
“Sebastian, I don’t work here. I own this place. See?” she pointed to a picture frame above my head. I turned around and glanced. It was a signed lease. I recognized Rebecca’s signature.
“Since when?”
“Since last April. I graduated early so I could open in time for summer. I signed the lease the night of my twenty-first birthday. My dad co-signed. It was …” she sighed and swished her coffee around before taking a sip, “My dad only co-signed when I agreed to marry you,” Becca whispered.
“Wait, so this place is your consolation prize for putting up with me?” I bristled. I felt a surge of rage seethe through my veins. I was furious. How could she?
“No. I mean, at first, it definitely helped the situation. But, Sebastian, I really like you,” Becca sniffled. Her nose was red. “How is that different from what you’re doing with me? You’re using my name to get into all of your little clubs! I hate the idea that I’m supposed to go along with this without any benefit for myself whatsoever like this is all I should aspire to be. Meanwhile, you get to go ahead and use me.” She was really crying now. Her shoulders shook. She yanked at the neckline of her T-shirt like she couldn’t breathe.
Becca was right. We both agreed to this marriage because it would be lucrative for us. I would be lying if I didn’t admit that when I first heard the name “Rebecca Cavanaugh,” I didn’t immediately think of all the doors that name would open for me.
“I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me? Becca, I feel like an asshole! I look like an asshole! You’re a cookie titan,” I exclaimed, glancing around the state-of-the-art kitchen.
“You’ve seen my parents. You’ve met my mother. I didn’t know you when I met you. I figured you’d think it was unbecoming or whatever. I didn’t want to scare you off. And then, even if you did know, I would have to make sure you wouldn’t run and snitch to my mother. Please don’t tell her, by the way. She’ll poison the frosting or something.”
“I won’t tell your mom. Becca, this is amazing,” I admitted. Part of me was genuinely relieved. Now I knew Becca wasn’t in this marriage for the money. She was more than capable of supporting herself. Maybe her feelings for me were genuine.
Becca blinked back tears. “Do you really think so?” she whispered. I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. I wondered about all the people in Becca’s life who saw her ambition and tried to kill it instead of telling her how wonderful it was. I would be devastated if I had to run Steele Realty in secret. How bad did her relationship with her parents have to be if she had to live out her dreams in secret, forty-five minutes away?
“I know so. Could you give me a tour?” I asked.
Becca blinked again. “Are you sure? It’s kind of boring.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. It’s fascinating. Show me where you keep the dough for the oatmeal scotchies,” I joked.
Becca laughed and hopped off her stool. She grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze before leading me to a walk-in refrigerator.
“It’s up here.” Becca grunted as she stood on her toes and grabbed a large plastic container. She carried it back to the counter and set it down. She rummaged through a drawer below and returned with a metal scoop. She popped the container open with ease. Her shoulders were relaxed. I’d never seen her move through a space so calmly before. Whenever we went to a gala, her spine was ramrod straight, and she looked like she was always calculating her next move.
“Do you want me to make you some?” she asked.
“You’d do that?”
Becca grinned and retrieved a cookie sheet from the cabinet beneath the counter in response. “It’ll only take like twenty minutes. Plus, they’re best when they’re warm. I’ve been meaning to make you some anyway.”
“Sure. Wow. My life just got infinitely better,” I joked.
“Mine too,” Becca said. She laid a piece of paper out onto the cookie sheet and dug through the container. She placed a couple of evenly spaced round balls of dough onto the sheet. I watched her; she was methodical and precise. I had a feeling it was like watching Leonardo Davinci paint. She was a master at work. She was amazing.
“Do you want to try?” Becca asked.
“Me? Oh no, I can barely boil water,” I said.
“Have you ever made cookies?” Becca asked.
I tried to remember and came up short. “I don’t think so.”
“Well then, you have to try, at least! There’s a sink behind you. Go ahead and wash your hands.”
I did as Becca said and stood behind her. She handed me the cookie scoop and stepped to the side.
“Okay, now dig down toward the middle,” Becca instructed. I tried my best to execute the perfect scoop. The dough was stickier than I expected. I came up with an uneven gob dangling off the end of the scoop.
“It’s okay. That can be two. Now, flip it down onto the sheet, and release the scoop.”
